


DBD One-Shots

by orphan_account



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27259357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A series of drabbles, two sentence stories, and poems. Heed the warnings.1. Poetry + Two Sentence Stories2. Bait (Krueger/Dwight)3. Him (Trapper/Dwight)4. Cheeky (David/Quentin)5. Plug It Up (Krueger/Quentin)6. Quentin Drabbles7. Monster (Yamaoka Kazan)8. His Arms All Around Me (Krueger/Quentin)9. Angel Lust (Ghostface/Quentin) - unfinished
Relationships: Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/Quentin Smith, David King/Quentin Smith, Dwight Fairfield/David King, Dwight Fairfield/Evan MacMillan | The Trapper, Dwight Fairfield/Freddy Krueger, Freddy Krueger/Quentin Smith, Yui Kimura/Rin Yamaoka | The Spirit
Comments: 2
Kudos: 73





	1. Poetry + Two Sentence Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: implied child murder

“Why do you always get inna locker?” David asked, glaring at the nervous leader over the crackle and pop of the campfire.

Dwight met his gaze steadily, a smirk playing over his lips. “Where else are we going to get any privacy?” 

\---

The jagged cuts in her pale flesh, her brightly flashing sclera, her wildly waving ebony hair, her skeletal limbs twisting with all of her anger and all of her despair are haunting, are terrifying, yet they are also more mesmerizing, more beautiful than anything Yui's ever seen. She wonders what it would take to make Rin whole again. 

\---

“Where’s Aya-chan?” Akito asked, hopeful eyes staring up at his father over his splinted leg, lifted high on all the pillows his mother had been able to find. 

“Aya-chan won’t be coming over to play anymore,” Kazan answered gruffly, wiping the blood from his blade and avoiding his wife’s eye. 

\---

Quentin can't remember the day he was born, but he remembers the first day he died. Maybe one of these days it'll stick. 

\---

Shame of a father 

Failure of a bitter son

A cursed legacy

\---

Quentin's been awake so long that he can't remember how to read the hands of the clock that lull him with each resonating tick, drawing his eyelids lower and lower and lower like a hypnotist's swaying pocket watch.

There's never enough coffee. 

\---

In the beginning

there was only me and Him

I can't break his trap

\---

“It’ll be fun,” David promised, clapping Dwight on the back and pushing the foul-smelling liquor up to his twitching lips.

“Sure,” Dwight murmured, grimacing at the taste and the bad memories they brought, but drinking so he wouldn’t have to be alone. “Fun.” 

\---

Quentin's never seen a killer cry before but when she lays her tear-streaked face on his shoulder, he realizes she's just as lost as he is. Petting oil-smudged fingers through her light hair, Quentin says a silent prayer for her soul to any god who might be listening. 

\---

I will always be

Your first and your last, I am

Inevitable


	2. Bait (KruegerxDwight)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: noncon

“Don’t be such a pussy,” David snarled, his lip curling up in annoyance at Dwight’s hesitation. “Somebody’s gotta be bait!” 

“Well, why me!?” Dwight hissed back, glancing over his shoulder through the patchy hay before ducking lower. Meg was a few paces back, shooting the pair glares as they argued. No one knew where Claudette had gone off too--Dwight hadn’t seen her since he’d spun into these foul-smelling fields. Hopefully off doing something useful. Unlike participating in this stupid conversation. 

“He’ll chase you,” David said, as though that explained everything. His voice softened a bit. Probably trying a different tactic since yelling and being an idiot hadn’t worked for him. When did it ever? 

Dwight’s brow furrowed, his own lips twisting up at the ridiculousness of David’s argument. “He’ll chase _any_ of us.” 

“Yeah,” David agreed, leaning into Dwight’s space. “But you’re his _favorite_ .” He reached out, laying a hand on Dwight’s dirty knee, eyes earnest with their pleading. “C’mon, mate, we _need_ you. We ain’t gonna get out of here without you.” 

It felt like he was being used. Like David had picked exactly the right words to manipulate Dwight into doing what it was that he wanted. And it was working. As he chewed on his lip, looking from the broad hand on his knee to those fierce brown eyes, Dwight broke. Acquiesced to David’s plan and his part in it: bait. 

“Okay,” Dwight muttered, pulling up to his feet. “I’ll do it.” 

“Just for a little while,” David promised, standing as well, towering a good head above the smaller man as he clapped his shoulder. “Just long enough to get gens done. Then we all outta here together, right?”

“Right.” 

Not wanting to watch David walk away from him, Dwight left first. Simply picked a direction and started to walk, making sure not to duck into any of the cover around him. They’d all get out of here together. Sure. Right. Because that was how it always went, wasn’t it? Maybe David wasn’t lying to him, not on purpose, but Dwight knew what was going to happen. We waited for you, they’d say once he’d dragged his broken body back to the campfire. We waited for you but you weren’t there, so we had to go. So we left you behind. No hard feelings though, right?

No hard feelings. Yeah, right. 

Static fuzzed the edges of the world, like he’d been plopped inside of an old TV show. He only really noticed it when he looked hard. The seams, Quentin called them. The parts where the dream connected to itself, where things were just slightly off from what they were supposed to be. But being in a trial with The Nightmare was nothing like an actual dream. Everything felt different, looked different. Was he even really asleep? He didn’t know, couldn’t tell. Quentin had patiently tried to explain to him and Dwight had tried his best to listen and understand, but the dreamwalker might as well have been trying to teach him quantum physics for as much sense as it had made. In the end, Quentin gave up trying to explain this world he shared with the Nightmare in favor of warning Dwight to be extra careful whenever he fell asleep, whenever he realized he might be in a dream, the dream state, or the dream world. Like those were distinct and different places. 

Which one was Dwight in now? He had no clue. It all looked the same to him and whatever difference Quentin could see was inapparent to Dwight’s eye. So he kept walking, feeling so stupid, metaphorically beating the trees to draw out the burned demon. Of all the monsters here, the Nightmare was one of his least favorite. How ridiculous that he had favorite murders. But he did. Some were brutal. Some were vicious. Then there were others who were sadistic and cruel. Who liked to hurt and humiliate as much as kill. The Nightmare was high on that list. 

As though summoned by his thoughts, as only such an arrogant creature could be, a faint lullaby reached Dwight’s ears. His head lulled, suddenly very heavy, suddenly so hard to keep upright. Maybe he hadn’t already been asleep. Maybe he was falling asleep now. Dream state… dream world. Where was he? Where was he going? It all swirled around him like dirty gray dishwater being sucked down a drain. Vertigo brought Dwight to a knee, the singing coming from all around him, faint yet pounding in his head, burrowing inside of his ears, digging down into his brain. With a grimace, Dwight squeezed his eyes shut and slapped his hands over his ears, trying to block out the noise. 

It worked. The lullaby disappeared and Dwight opened his eyes only to see brown pants and heavy, worn boots. The hem of a sweater at the edge of his vision and, when Dwight lifted his chin, a grotesque grin of cracked yellow teeth leering down at him. 

Run… he was supposed to run. He was supposed to keep the Nightmare occupied until the others could finish the gens. Then they’d get out of here together. Right? But his legs felt stuck to the ground, as though he’d sunk inches into the muck and mud, as though weights had been tied to his ankles and his body thrown over a dock. Food for the fishes.

The Nightmare reached down, catching Dwight’s face with his bladed hand. Such a gentle touch from such a brutal man, carefully cupping Dwight’s chin without cutting him though Dwight knew if he moved, if he even breathed too hard, the knives might slit his throat. 

“All alone?” The Nightmare teased. His throat bobbed as he swallowed thickly, a pinprick of blood streaking down his neck from even the subtle movement. A golden eye watched it fall down his pale flesh, grin over widening across his mottled face. Dwight couldn’t stop looking at that disgusting mouth, how it smiled at him, like it wanted to devour him, like he was a lamb left to appease a cruel and hungry god. 

“My friends…” Dwight began weakly. The Nightmare cut him off with a harsh bark of laughter.

“Friends? What friends? You mean that fatass who giftwrapped you for me?”

No. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t what had happened. They were a team; they were all working together. This was just his part in the plan. The Nightmare was just trying to ruffle him, to make him lose his composure. Dwight swallowed again and a second trail of blood slid down his throat, two thin streaks of red running parallel across the white skin. The blades stayed on his neck as the monster’s other hand rose from his side, pointing back the way Dwight had come. Turning his head brought two more lines of red down his neck, but he had to look. Though anxiety gnawed at his insides like necrosis eating everything healthy and good for fear of what he might see, Dwight had to look. 

Across the expanse of swaying grass sticking out of muddy patches of earth, David stood. David watched, a grin rivalling the Nightmare’s nearly splitting his face in half. Ice slid down Dwight’s esophagus to see him, to see his lips curling into that nasty smile, to see delight drawing down strong brows over eyes that were almost black. Why was he just standing there!? Why wasn’t he working on the generators!? And where were the others? It couldn’t be that… the Nightmare couldn’t be telling the truth, could he? David would never do that to him. 

Right? 

“Look at me,” The Nightmare purred, his voice soft and scratchy against the evening hum of cicadas. Dwight turned, all too glad to get his eyes off David’s eager face. The thought to run struck him again, but he didn’t. He didn’t even try to get up, bringing his other leg down into the mud as well. 

“What do you want?” 

The blades finally moved, ghosting out from under Dwight’s chin to stroke his cheek instead. The Nightmare smiled down at him, something approaching fondness in the expression. Like he was looking at a favored pet, a pretty possession.

“Do your job,” he said.

“What?”

The smile stretched wider and Dwight was sure the demon’s skin would tear, yet it didn’t, stretching over the gaunt planes of his face like putty. “Distract me.” 

Where were the others? Were they working on the generators? Steadily plugging away so that they could all escape? Dwight tried to look over his shoulder to search out the trails they’d left in disrupted leaves and displaced mud, but the Nightmare’s hand tightened on his jaw, preventing him from turning his head. His eyes still cut to the side, looking for any sign of his comrades, looking towards anything but the mottled face before him. Distract him… it’s what David had asked of him, what the others wanted of him, needed of him… and now that Krueger was in front of him, what could he really do? Run? He’d be caught. Fight? He’d lose. 

Dwight turned his eyes away from the dusky paths leading away from the Nightmare, instead meeting the demon’s glimmering gold eyes. They shone with triumph and Dwight sank onto his knees. Mud squelched against his slacks, dirtying and wetting them. Shaking hands fumbled for the Killer’s belt, unfastening it and pushing it aside before popping the button of his pants, pulling the thick zipper down. The skin beneath his fingers was just as burned, just as twisted and wretched as the face expectantly leering down at him. Dwight closed his eyes--he didn’t need to see in order to do this. 

Krueger’s length was sour on his tongue, like meat that had been left out too long. His stomach rolled violently and his shoulders pitched forward, bile dancing in his throat before finally settling. Revolting. Disgusting. Every crevice of texture rubbed his tongue, the inside of his mouth, caught on his teeth, eliciting little hisses of pained pleasure from the demon looming over him. Fingers fisted in his hair, the blades cupping his chin as Krueger jutted his hips forward. Patience was something better suited to humans. Krueger fucked Dwight’s voice, drinking down his gurgles and gags, cackling softly each time Dwight’s throat closed in protest, trying in vain to force Krueger’s cock from slipping down it. 

There was no stopping the demon’s come from going down his throat. Krueger’s cock was too far in his mouth, fucking down his esophagus cruelly. If Dwight choked on it, if he threw up, if he died on his cock… well, how exciting it would be! The Nightmare relished the ideas, fantasizing about them as he pumped into the man’s mouth, as he filled his throat with come so hot it sizzled. Not this time but… maybe another. Krueger released Dwight, tucking his softening cock back into his pants as Dwight caught himself on his hands, coughing and wheezing up the burning seed. Spittle dribbled down his chin, snot clogged up his nose, tears prickled the corners of his eyes. Was it enough? Did it matter? 

“Nice chase,” the Nightmare mocked, snapping his pants closed, reading Dwight’s thoughts. “You bought them what, 10 minutes? Good job, Leader. Left me a snowball’s chance.” 

God, he was right. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t enough time… not by a long shot. This… wasn’t what he was supposed to do! He was supposed to _run_ , was supposed to lead the Killer on a chase, to take him away from the others, to give them _time_ … and instead… instead he was left with dirty knees and a burning throat. Stupid! Stupid and--

“Useless,” Krueger finished, patting Dwight’s head. “Stupid and useless boy.” 

Protests died in his sore throat, unable to contest what the Nightmare asserted. He couldn’t argue, couldn’t do anything… could _never_ do anything… 

“Dwight,” Krueger said, petting the man’s trembling jaw. Dwight couldn’t bring himself to look up, to meet his eyes. 

“Dwight,” he repeated, more urgent this time, gripping his face. Still, he didn’t open his eyes. His glasses were fogged with humidity, stained with salt. 

“Dwight!” 

Dwight’s eyes flew open, a deep inhaling puffing out his chest as he started awake. The fire’s heat danced on his face and he reached for his clean glasses, shakily straightening them on his face. Several pairs of eyes were trained on him as he panted against the log he’d fallen asleep against, some bored, some concerned. Quentin’s lips were drawn tight as he looked at Dwight across the campfire, his somber blue eyes _knowing._ Dwight swallowed harshly, his Adam’s apple bobbing painfully in his sore throat, and looked away. David’s hand gripped Dwight’s shoulder tightly, the muscular Brit leaning into Dwight’s space. 

“Ya alright, mate?” David asked, loosening his death grip only slightly. His face was so drawn, so earnest… Dwight didn’t know if he wanted to turn away or fall into that expression, to let it soothe and comfort him like honeyed tea after a long cough. Already the dream was fading, how David had manipulated him into Krueger. But it hadn’t _been_ David, had it? It was Krueger from the beginning. David would never do something like that, not to anybody. And maybe... certainly not to _him_. Was it too much to think? Too much to hope that David cared just a little bit more about him than the others? Was that wrong, selfish to want? Maybe so, and he kept it silent, contenting himself with the man's closeness, with his hand on Dwight's shoulder and his eyes shining with concern. Concern for _him,_ for his wellbeing. That was enough. Dwight couldn't dare ask for more. 

"Y-yeah," Dwight replied, sitting up, rolling his shoulders, fixing the man with a hesitant smile. "I'm alright. It was just a bad dream." 


	3. Him (TrapperxDwight)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was the first DBD fic I wrote back in 2018  
> TW: watersports, noncon

We’ve all learned how to read the fire by now. After endless days of staring into the flames, we know what every crackle indicates, what every flare of color means, and when the nightmare will continue. For some of us, watching the campfire is relaxing. A reprieve from running the trials, sadistic and pointless games designed to test… what? What could the monster possibly hope to learn that it hasn’t over the course of… when? It’s impossible to tell time here, but I know we aren’t the first. Others have stumbled in and out of the fog, and yet the trials persist.

Kate hums a wordless song, plucking the hopelessly out-of-tune guitar she keeps in her little pile of belongings around the fire. An uneasy peace spreads through the camp. Even David taps his foot, smiles sardonically as he watches Kate’s pursed lips. They try to find joy in these small moments, to hold fast to them, because they are all we really have. No one believes in escape anymore, no matter what the scribbles in the dirt or the tattered journal pages say.

I remember when I was alone at the fire. Flashes of color and movement in the woods would sometimes catch my attention and I’d stare into the fog and wonder if there were other people around other campfires, facing the same kind of nightmare I was. But I was never brave enough to venture out. I stayed put until the fire burned a little hotter, the flames a little brighter, and it was time again to see Him.  
  
In the beginning, there was only me and there was only Him. The campfire faded away and the whiteness came. As the fog cleared, I’d find myself in sparse woods smelling of coal and molten metal. Always, I’d find myself there. Always, He would be there. An endless game of cat and mouse, His flashing teeth in a ghost-white face. Broad hands and hulking arms grabbed me, bruising my flesh. He’d watch as I struggled on the hook, waiting for the monster to take me. The last thing I’d see was His skeleton’s mask and His haunting eyes burning into my skull.

I close my eyes in a vain attempt to block the memory, turning away as David teases Kate. She feigns annoyance. How can they be so nonchalant? At any moment, we could be called back into the monster’s realm. At any moment, I could face Him again.

Mindlessly, I chew my fingers. The nails are nothing but stubs now, the beds bloody and raw. It hurts when I rip wires out of the generators, frantically trying to make them spark before He finds me. The cold metal of the lockers bite into my hands when I open them and hide, praying to whoever might listen that He doesn’t look inside.  
  
I should stop, but I just can’t seem to make myself. Claudette calls it a nervous tick. Maybe. She’s nervous too. I watch her jump at every caw from the woods, her dark eyes growing wide and fearful at every twig snap. She should be afraid. We should all be afraid, not singing around the fire like we’re at summer camp. I turn my back to them, fingertips shoved into my mouth.

“Are you okay, Dwight?” Claudette asks, glancing my way while keeping an eye on the fire.

“Not really,” I respond. She accepts this without comment because, really, what can she say? We all know David and Bill are deluded when they say they are okay, and they aren’t fooling anyone but themselves.

“Yeah,” she begins, turning her knees in my direction. But then she stops. Her spine is rigid and her head swivels towards the fire, telling me all that I need to know. I don’t bother getting up, don’t bother readying myself. I only pray.

Please, God, if you exist, please not Him.

My feet are pulled out from under me. Darkness spins, swathed in the sweet smells of bog laurel and primrose marred with the gamey stench of charred bones and burning feathers. We’re traveling, being once again transported from the false security of the campfire into the monster’s game.

It isn’t until my feet find solid ground that I am able to see where I am and who is with me. Frozen in place, I swivel my head left and right for a few seconds to get my bearings. Meg is far to my left, her brow drawn in concentration. She leans like a marathon runner on her mark, ready to take off as soon as the monster lets her. Claudette calls it the Sky Spider. Meg has named it Bob.

Bob the Sky Spider is the least of my concerns. Meg is off like a rocket as I stare in horror at the wavering storehouse in the center of the gray-blue clearing, for I have seen it before. It is His storehouse. It belonged to him in life, though I am not sure if he recognizes it anymore. I do. I’ve spent my untold years here learning everything I can about Him.

It groans loudly, swaying into a nonexistent wind. Sparse vegetation dots the landscape and I creep uncertainly towards a dark patch of tall grass. Distantly I hear gears grinding; Meg, or someone else, is already working on a generator, trying to get us out of this nightmare. I should be too, but I can’t. Not yet. I have to know. Though it is His storehouse, that does not mean He is here. It could be someone else. It could be anyone. I flatten my back against the bricks and observe.

Seconds tick by. It feels like hours. Grass rustles. Generators pop. Claudette screams. It’s the scream that finally pushes me out of hiding. I follow the sound of her screaming and her blood staining the cold ground, a roll of gauze clutched in my hand. I find her hiding behind a tree, tears streaking her ashen face, trying desperately to stem the bleeding, and help her wrap her shoulder.

“Who is it?” I hiss, tying the gauze off.

She opens her mouth to answer, but all that comes out is a blood curdling scream of terror followed by bright, hot pain in my upper back. I stumble forward as Claudette runs away. I follow suit, not bothering to look behind me, just running blindly, turning corners, dropping twisted hunks of wood in my path to put as much distance between myself and my pursuer as possible. Blood beats in my ears and my vision dims, but I do not stop running.

I cut through the storehouse and shoot out the other side, then quickly switch directions. I risk a glance over my shoulder. Nothing. If I am still being pursued, I can’t tell.  
  
Walking is painful, but I bite my lips to keep from crying out. The back of my shirt is filthy, caked with blood, dirt, and sweat. I’ve used all my gauze on Claudette; I hope she’s far away now. Maybe she’s found Meg and they are repairing a generator together. Which is what I should be doing. The sooner they are finished, the sooner we can open the door and get out of this place.

At least, until next time.

Directly ahead, flood lights flicker inside of brick walls. I don’t hear anything besides the faint buzz of stunted electricity. It doesn’t look as though anyone has touched this one, so I tiptoe towards the side of it, staying low in the grass, hoping that my pursuer isn’t out there somewhere, watching me, circling me like an injured antelope cut off from the herd.

Before I can even touch the circuitry, sharp metal teeth clamp around my ankle with a loud SNAP! Pain doesn’t even register against the urgency of getting the trap off. Frantically, I pull at the trap, but it’s useless. My fingers don’t feel like they belong on my body. My eyes are someone else’s. My head has floated away with the horror of realization.

Oh god! Oh god! It’s Him!

Grass crunches under His thick boots. Rasping breath hits my ears and I rip at the trap wildly, trying to wrench my foot away, glad to let the trap keep it. I’ll limp away on a bloody stump if it means getting away from Him. But He’s there before I can get the rusty hunk of metal loose. His shadow looms over me, watching me struggle. He could easily open it and release me, at least release me enough to throw my body onto a dirty meat hook, but He does not. He stands still and watches, waits for me to muscle the trap open.

Leaping to my feet, I face Him. He’s still, masked face blank and impassive. Nails and twisted bits of metal pierce His skin and flair out, weaponizing His massive body. Fire from a nearby trash barrel reflects off His mask, highlighting the darkness of His eyes. They are black inside that skeleton’s face. I take a few rickety steps backward, turn, and run.

My escape is slow going. Agony shoots through my leg. My back is throbbing. He follows me at a distance. I know that He could catch up at any moment, if He wanted to, and snatch me. Why He doesn’t is beyond me, but so is rational thought. There’s nothing besides escape.

A loud alarm blares, interrupting our chase. He pauses, turning His head towards the huge metal door barring our freedom. The others have finished repairing the generators, and that door can be opened now. He will head to it, cut them off, stop them.

Or so I think. His head turns back and follows me once more. I keep limping forward and our snail’s chase resumes. I hope that Meg and Claudette are leaving. And whoever else came into this gray hellscape with us, I guess. I hope that they are at the gate and safe. More importantly, I hope they escape so they will not see what happens when He inevitably catches me.

I haven’t quite given up. I’m still running, but I’m not an idiot. The only reason He hasn’t caught me yet is because He does not want to. He is biding his time. Playing with me. One by one, I feel them leave. It’s difficult to describe the feeling, but I’ve learned to listen to it. Heed it. My gut is hollow, and I know that I am alone.

Well. Not alone. He’s behind me still. He must feel them leave as well because His breath quickens. His strides get longer. He’s not longer toying with me; He is closing the distance between us fast. He gains with every step. I don’t know why I’m even bothering to run. There is no way I can get to the gate with my mangled ankle.

In the beginning, when it was only me and only Him, it was always the basement He’d drag me to when He managed to catch me. Even now, the back hook is reserved for me. I have never seen Him put anyone else on it. He’d hook me up there, then He’d stand and stare, watch as the monster’s spines impaled me. As time went on, more hooks dotted the landscape. It was no longer the basement every time. In the light, it was easier to see Him. His chest heaved as He watched me struggle on the hook. His hands balled into fists at His sides. His pants tightened.  
  
That was my first indication of what was to come. At first, I didn’t notice. When I noticed, I tried to ignore it. I tried to ignore His clear excitement when I was on his shoulder, writhing between his thick bicep and wide shoulders. I tried not to think about what it meant. But that doesn’t work anymore. I know exactly what it means and that is why I am running so hard. But it doesn’t matter. I’m a slave to the games of the monster in the sky and the monster behind me.

His hand closes on my shoulder and my feet fly out from under me at the sudden grasp. I careen backward, colliding with the solid muscle of His torso. Hardness presses into the small of my back and I try not to hyperventilate. It’s going to happen again. It’s going to happen again and again and again for all of fucking eternity and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

I don’t struggle as He carries me away. Even if I could get loose, which is doubtful, I don’t know where I’d go. I don’t know the way out. It’s better to just accept it. Get it over with. Shame floods me at the thought. Five years ago, two years ago, would I have felt the same?

All of the basements look the same. It’s one of the few constants across the trials. Whether we’re stuck in an abandoned hospital or in a meat packing plant, the wood planked basement is identical. It’s a reminder of the monster’s control of these illusions. A reminder of what happened in the beginning, when it was only me and only Him.  
  
He stumbles on the stairs in His eagerness. Unable to wait any longer, He dumps me on the staircase. Pale strips of light highlight the top of my vision as He unbuckles his coveralls and shoves them down. As His thick cock presses against my ass, rubs between the cheeks, I stare at that blue light. I wonder what this place looks like in the real world. Does it exist? Did it ever?

His hands fist the globes of my ass and spread them like He wants to rip me apart. It’s a pain I can’t ignore. Since there’s no one to hear, I scream. Tip my head back and scream out all the agony in my ankle, in my ass, in my soul. If I have one. Maybe this is Hell. Purgatory. The weight of my sins is being carved out of my flesh by a monster night after night. Maybe one day I’ll be wiped clean and leave this place.

Pain spikes through my insides as His cock penetrates. It feels cartoonishly large, tearing into me like another weapon. At least this one doesn’t have spikes on it. His hand fumbles beneath me and grasps my flaccid dick. He rubs and jerks it clumsily as He thrusts, His crushing weight forcing the air from my lungs. Sometimes He does this, trying to pleasure me? It never does anything other than hurt, leaving a secondary ache between my legs from the rough handling.

Blood leaks from my rear when He finally withdraws, standing on the stairs to stare down at the wreckage He has wrought. Moving hurts. I moan quietly, and then stop trying. He’s either going to toss me on the hook and let the monster have me or stare at me until I bleed out. Already my hands and feet are cold. The chill radiates my limbs to my aching core. It won’t be long now.  
  
A quiet moan echoes my own. Stealing a glance over my shoulder, I see Him grasp His softening cock in a large hand. A few times He strokes it, flicking the last clinging drops of come onto my bare ass. He doesn’t drop His cock. Doesn’t put His clothes back on and drag me into the basement. Instead, He stares at me, flaccid member in hand. At first, I don’t understand what He is doing or what He wants. Then a hot stream of piss hits my back. It soaks into my shirt as He groans and sighs with pleasure. I jerk reflexively, crying out indignantly at the new humiliation. I try to struggle up the stairs but He is just a step behind, following me, moving from my shirt to my head, my hair, my face. His urine is hot and acrid like acid bubbling my flesh off. I feel like I’ll never be clean–never be rid of Him! He is my boogeyman, the monster under my head, haunting my waking nightmares. Finally, the tears come. Deep, heaving sobs shake my body as He drenches me in piss and marks me as His own.

His hands reach for me and I close my eyes, but those hands never clamp down on me. He’s gone. I didn’t feel the falling of the hatch or the endless running of the gate. I am simply back at the camp. I’ve never travelled so instantaneously in all my time wandering the fog, didn’t even know it was possible until now. I lay face down in the dirt, my pants intact, my shirt... well, not clean, but no longer piss stained.  
  
“Dwight!” Claudette is at my side, helping me up. My ankle is back in alignment, the blood streaking my thighs vanished. Their injuries have healed too, as they do every time, leaving only the memories.

“Are you okay?” She asks. I turn my head away and she bites her lip.

“I’m sorry we left,” she murmurs, sounding sincerely contrite. “We didn’t see how-”

“Forget it,” I interrupt, forcing a smile. “I’m glad you got out. All of you. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

Though she looks unsure, she nods. Meg doesn’t apologize. We all agreed long ago: if someone is a lost cause, leave them. Get out. Save yourself. I can’t blame her for it, and I don’t. I’m glad she didn’t see. That none of them saw. If that means being the last man out of every trial He is in, I’ll do it. Anything to preserve the last vestiges of dignity remaining behind this broken smile. I smile, touching Claudette’s arm gently, and she nods. David jabs Kate and she squeals, slapping him as he laughs. Around the campfire, everything goes back to normal. It’s just a bad memory.

At least, until next time.


	4. Cheeky (DavidxQuentin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a particularly thrilling trial, David and Quentin sneak into the woods to work through the lingering adrenaline. - PWP  
> Written back in 2019, orphaned, collecting into these one-shots

“Shit, that was _amazin’._ ”

Nea grinned. Ace pumped his fist in the air. Even Quentin had to smile, typically dour expression melting away in the face of so much joyful energy. It _had_ been amazing. One of the best trials they’d had in a long time. Only one person had even been hooked: Quentin. Twice. The others had finished the generators and opened the gate as the Nurse carried his flailing body to the meat hook. Though she’d stayed close, David, Ace, and Nea had swarmed the hook to rescue him. He’d almost made it to the open gate when she’d struck him again. But the long shard of glass he kept nearby, a gift from Laurie, had come in handy and he’d managed to stab the apparition and dash out, flanked by his teammates. The last thing he’d heard was David’s grunt of pain followed closely by manic laughter as the bone saw tore into his flesh, a hit meant for Quentin. Then David seized his hand and all four of them ran, bodies pumping with adrenaline, faces flushed in victory, back to the campfire.

David slung his arm over Quentin’s shoulders, yanking him close and grinning. Why not? The victories were few and far between and hard won. Quentin smiled back; they could have easily left him, all escaped, and they hadn’t. They’d come back for him. Though the idea of anyone risking their neck to save him made Quentin a little uncomfortable, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t grateful for the effort. A little bit touched, too.

“Yeah,” he agreed, watching as Ace began to regale the others with the tale of their Great Escape. “It was pretty okay, I guess.”

“You _guess_?” David jeered, smirking widely at the teen. “You’re a little shit, y’know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

David regarded him for a moment, brows drown down, then shrugged his broad shoulders and chuckled. Tightening his arm, he dragged the boy closer in order to rest his forehead against Quentin’s temple. When he spoke, his voice was husky velvet, tickling the baby hairs around Quentin’s ear.

“Hey,” he murmured, “let’s go to bed.”

“What?” Quentin replied, amused. “You really want to go to sleep right now?”

“No,” David answered, grin pulling wide. “But I _do_ wanna go to bed.”

Quentin glanced at the others. Claudette leaned forward, hand at her throat. Meg’s eyes glittered in the firelight. Even Dwight’s nervous energy settled as he listened to Ace’s mildly embellished tale. None of them were paying any attention to the pair hovering at the edge of the clearing. The woods beyond beckoned: dark, isolated, private. They weren’t the only two who snuck away into that solitude, so no one really paid mind when Quentin nodded, slipped his hand into David’s, and followed him into the darkness.

As soon as they were out of eyesight, David was all hands. They roamed everywhere, pulling off Quentin’s overshirt, slipping under his tee, grabbing the waistband of his jeans and yanking roughly. Blood rushed to Quentin’s face as he stumbled after David, trying to keep on his feet under the assault.

“Fuck,” he grumbled, “excited or something?”

“Mmm,” David’s pleasure rumbled deep in his chest as he wrapped his arms around Quentin’s waist. He held the boy tightly as he attacked his throat, licking and biting the tender flesh. It wasn’t just the fact that they’d gotten out, all of them, and relatively intact. He’d been able to protect Quentin. He’d saved him, even if it was just for a minute. For a day. That accomplishment fed a need deep within David and that satiation came out in the _need_ to touch Quentin, to hold him close, to make him feel just as good as David himself felt.

Lifting the boy off the ground, David held him up as he sank to his knees, then laid Quentin down beneath him. Tearing his shirt off, he threw it behind himself, not caring where it landed. Quentin pulled his own shirt over his head and shoved it aside, panting lightly as he stared up at David with challenge in his eyes.

“What?” David asked, grinning as he ran his hands up Quentin’s sides.

“What what?”

“That look.”

“That’s just what my face looks like.”

David rolled his eyes and Quentin smiled, reaching up to rub his hands over David’s shoulders, slide them down his thick arms, and finally settle his own thin fingers over David’s broad hands. Gripping one, he directed it, all the while maintaining unflinching eye contact with the man above him.

Quentin led David’s hand to his crotch and pressed it there, the man’s palm cupping the bulge in Quentin’s jeans. David couldn’t help but let out a bark of laughter, massaging Quentin’s contained erection as he grinned down at him.

“Cheeky.”

Quentin only smiled.

But David could be cheeky too. With a practiced hand, he unbuttoned Quentin’s jeans and pulled down the zipper before dipping his hand inside to grasp the base of his cock. Quentin’s mouth fell open in a small gasp, his head tilting back in the dying leaves littering the forest floor, and David grinned victoriously. Inching Quentin’s too tight pants down–what did kids wear in the future, honestly?–he stroked up and down the length of Quentin’s erection, smile widening with every delicious groan his treatment elicited. Another time, he might have drawn it out, edged him close to orgasm and brought him back down over and over until he was practically begging for release, but David couldn’t wait that long. His blood pumped in his ears, heartbeat pulsing between his legs. He wanted to fuck Quentin, and he wanted to fuck him _right then._

“Take yer pants off,” David commanded, releasing Quentin’s cock and standing swiftly to do the same. Quentin sat up, untying his ratty shoes with shaking fingers so he could shimmy those ridiculous pants down. His thighs shook, last clings of baby fat trembling, and David felt a little bit like a predator seeing it. It clung to his face too, rounding out his cheeks, his neck. How old was the kid? 17? 19? David had never asked, and he didn’t plan to. Did it really matter? Was busting a nut with him really the worst thing that could happen in this fucked up nightmare?

Lubricant wasn’t a thing in the Entity’s Realm, but it hadn’t been in the seedy bathhouses and back alleys David had spent his twenties either. Getting on his knees, he pushed Quentin back and gripped his thighs. Wrapping strong arms around them, he dragged the boy close and nuzzled between his legs. He smelled remarkably clean; No food meant no excrement. Though David wasn’t perturbed by the grossness of sex, he definitely didn’t mind the cleanliness of Quentin’s body. The scents of his arousal were heavy overtones to the lighter smells of his flesh. David licked down the length of his cock, sucked each ball into his mouth and swirled his tongue around them, then released and dipped lower. With a grunt of pleasure, David began to tongue-fuck Quentin, shoving the wet muscle as deep inside of his puckered hole as he could, trying his best to get the kid open and ready. He couldn’t see Quentin’s face from that angle, but he liked to imagine his eyes were fluttering, his fist balled in his mouth, cheeks flush as he helplessly took David’s tongue.

In reality, Quentin stared open mouthed into the star-dotted sky as he ground his hips aggressively into David’s face. “Fuck,” he whispered, trying to fist his hands in David’s short hair, but he was unable to find enough to get a good grip. He grabbed his head instead, chin to his chest as he rode David’s face.

David broke away first, panting as he staggered up, leaning eagerly over Quentin. Shoving his legs wide apart, David braced Quentin’s thigh with one hand and gripped the base of his own hardness with the other. Stroking it a few times, spreading as much precum over the length as he could, he positioned it between Quentin’s cheeks and leaned in. Inch by inch, punctuated by Quentin’s breathy moans and nails digging into David’s back, David pushed until his cock was completely sheathed inside of Quentin, the dark curls of his pubic hair settled against the kid’s pale ass. The pair laid still for a couple breaths--Quentin’s eyes squeezed shut so he couldn’t see David staring down at him--until Quentin let out a shaky breath and nodded.

David moved slowly, regardless of Quentin’s tight nod. They’d done this a couple of a times—he wondered if Quentin had ever been fucked before coming to this world. He liked to think he hadn’t, but they hadn’t talked about it. The idea that he was the first person to do this was satisfying, a primal sort of reaction that mixed well with his protectiveness of the kid, his need to keep him safe. Relatively safe, anyway.

“David,” Quentin groaned, nose scrunched up and brows drawn down in a pinched expression. Damn, he hoped he wasn’t hurting him.

“Hmm?”

“If you go any slower,” Quentin said dryly, scowling up at David through slitted eyes, “I’m gonna fall asleep.”

Laughter rang out through the sparse woods, sending crows to flight and probably alerting the rest of the crew at the fire, but neither of them cared. With a manic grin splitting his face, David shifted his arms to pin Quentin down with his superior body weight.

“Yeah?” He teased, lips brushing against Quentin’s ear as he fucked him even slower than before, each drag of his hips a snail’s pace. Quentin squirmed, trying to roll his hips down against David, but it was impossible with that muscle mass crushing him into the forest floor. And David knew it. His shit eating grin was evidence enough.

“How ‘bout this?” He murmured, nipping Quentin’s earlobe. “Betta?”

“ _Ugh_. You’re such a jackass.”

“Maybe,” David agreed, stilling his hips altogether to smile down at Quentin. “But cha like it.”

Quentin scowled so hard David thought his lips would come right off his face. Laughing again, David pecked that angry face affectionately before surging his hips forward, relishing the way Quentin’s eyes went wide and his mouth popped open. Teasing shoved aside--for the moment at least--David fucked him in earnest, groaning when sharp nails dug into his back, when teeth nibbled the tender flesh of his neck. It didn’t take too long for him to get close, but he tried to wait, tried to be considerate. Only when Quentin’s body tensed, when his hands curled into David’s shoulders and he trembled with the pleasure splashing hotly between their bodies, did David let himself come.

With a happy sigh, David canted his hips back and rolled off Quentin, though he pulled him close, forcing him into a cuddle that Quentin didn’t really resist. The moments ticked by in pleasant silence interrupted only by their breathy pants slowly returning to normal.

“Gonna nap w’ me?” David asked, though he already knew the answer. Quentin never napped with him, not after they fucked or any other time, and he didn’t bother answering David’s question. 

“One day,” David muttered drowsily, enjoying the weight of Quentin against his chest and the way his hand stroked over the naked expanse, “yer gonna tell me how come ya don’t neva sleep.”

“Maybe,” Quentin acquiesced with a heaviness that concerned David. “But not today. Good night, David.”

Though he wanted to know, David didn’t pry. If Quentin wanted to tell him, he’d tell him. Until then, he was content with what they had. Damn sure could have had less in this nightmare world.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, pressing a kiss into Quentin’s curls. “Night, kid.” 


	5. Plug it Up (KruegerxQuentin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted in 2019 and orphaned, collecting into my one-shots   
> Trial after trial gets boring after a while. Freddy finds a way to spice things up. TW: noncon, torture, mentions of CSA

Except for one particular _situation_ , Quentin had a relatively normal childhood. A quiet, shy child, he didn’t have many friends. The other kids saw him as “spacey” or “weird” for being so consistently stuck in his own head, sometimes not even able to see what was in front of him, even if it was a dodge ball flying at his face. But what kid didn’t have trouble fitting in, to some degree or another? It was all very normal, really.

Krueger was the anomaly. The abnormal part of his childhood. The horrific part of his adulthood. Hook through his shoulder, dream demon leering through the darkness at him, Quentin’s thoughts slipped back to his preschool days. Slipped back to a different basement, but the same demon. Relatively.

“It’ll feel good,” Krueger had promised, petting his fingers along Quentin’s naked back. The boy shivered, pressed his face into the pillows, and nodded. Said okay. Because he _always_ said okay. Mr. Krueger didn’t think he was spacey or weird. He thought Quentin was _special..._

“No,” Quentin groaned, gripping the hook in an attempt to pull himself off. Krueger was right in front of him, so he’d just go back on the hook if he did manage to get free, but maybe he could give Krueger a good kick to the jaw in the process.

Krueger just laughed, stroked his claws down Quentin’s thigh. “It’s cute how you think you got a choice.”

Working fast, Krueger unbuckled Quentin’s belt. When Quentin was little, he could just slip his pants down over his slim hips, but that was impossible with the ridiculously tight pants the boy now favored. Krueger had to unbutton the jeans, unzip them, and yank hard to get them out of the way.

“What the fuck are you doing!?”

Time was of the essence, so Krueger did not bother answering. Probably wouldn’t have bothered anyway. Quentin would see soon enough. Maybe even remember, if he was lucky. Krueger _loved_ it when Quentin remembered, loved seeing the realizations blow out his pupils and pale his skin. The flush would come next, the sputtering indignation. Fun stuff to watch. But that would come later, and that was fine too. Krueger liked the anticipation. Didn’t mind waiting.

Moving behind Quentin, Krueger kneeled and placed his hands on the boy’s ass. Spreading his cheeks wide, chuckling at Quentin’s outraged howl, Krueger snaked his tongue out. Humans were filthy creatures, inside and out, but that was one upside to this prison. No mess as he probed his tongue against Quentin’s entrance, swiping over it wetly a few times before pushing inside. Ready or not. Honestly, Quentin should be _grateful_ that Krueger was even doing this much. He didn’t _have_ to make it easier on the boy, but he was, because he was just that nice of a guy.

It had taken him a long time to get the hang of the sky spider’s world, but now he was getting there. Manifesting objects was child’s play now, as it always should have been, as it _had been_ before this little _brat_ had gotten them dragged into this hellhole. Not that Krueger was bitter. Oh, no. He just believed in giving credit where credit was due. And that was why he had a special reward for Quentin, now that he’d reclaimed some of his power.

Reaching into his pocket, Krueger extracted a large, black butt plug. At the end gleamed a dark green gem, clearly fake in its intricate cuts and exaggerated sparkle. The kid was bigger now, more _experienced_ , so Krueger had adjusted accordingly. Just because he was a nice guy didn’t mean he had to make it _too_ easy. Where was the fun in that?

The first time, he’d watched Quentin squirm and suffer all afternoon. Whining during story-time as Krueger bounced him lightly on his knee. Refusing to go to the bathroom, to play at recess. Mrs. Winters had almost sent the kid home sick he was so lethargic and mopey. Thank god she hadn’t, and Quentin had gotten to come down to his room when the day was over. He’d whimpered and cried, _begged_ Krueger to take it **_out_**... God, what a _fun_ day. He remembered, and he made sure Quentin did too.

Saliva slid down Quentin’s thighs as Krueger pulled his tongue back, though it was quickly replaced by the plug. Quentin gasped, wriggled on the hook, tried his best to move _away_ from the hands pressing the toy into his body but, ultimately, there was nothing he could do. With a rough, uncaring push, it slid inside. Krueger’s grin sparkled in the gem’s reflection as he yanked Quentin’s pants back up, patting his ass for good measure. Rounding to his front, Krueger fastened Quentin’s pants and belt, then gave his groin a pat for artistic symmetry.

There was no time for further taunting. Footsteps fell heavily down the stairs. One of the others running to pull Quentin off the hook which, in this particular instance, was just fine. According to plan. Holding a single claw up his lips, Krueger retreated into a dark corner of the basement and stayed still.

“Damn,” David groaned, grabbing Quentin under the armpits and hauling him off the hook. The boy stumbled, fell into David, and grunted. “Why’s it always you, kid?”

Quentin’s eye flicked to the glimmer of light reflecting off Krueger’s poised claw in the corner, swearing he could see the demon’s cruel grin bright against the darkness, and shook his head. “Let’s get outta here.”

David went first and Quentin ran awkwardly after him, the plug heavy and fat inside of him. Uncomfortable. Every pump of his legs chaffed the bulbous gem against his ass and lodged the offending object further in. At least, it _felt_ that way. Out of the basement they ran, into the lush grass and twilight above. Rain pattered through the forest. In another situation, Quentin might have noticed the beauty of the tall trees. The craftsmanship of the log cabin. Not now, though.

“Here,” David directed, yanking Quentin into a crevice between a few freestanding walls. Perfectly hidden from outside view. Perfect dead end if Krueger happened upon them too. Quentin tried not to think about that, which was easier than he thought it was going to be. After all, there was a lot to distract him. David wrapping his shoulder with a mastery and skill that no longer surprised him, the crank of generators in the distance against the birdsong and soft summer rain, the dull ache from a shoulder wound opened a thousand times, and the sharp, new ache between his legs. It jolted through his body whenever he moved, rubbing dryly against his inside until Quentin grimaced.

“Ah, c’mon,” David teased, mistaking the cause of Quentin’s wince for the shoulder repair job. “Don’ be such a pussy.”

“Fuck off,” Quentin grumbled back, not possessing the patience to converse with David right then. Quentin stood, focusing hard on keeping his face neutral as he peered around the wall. Nothing. None of the other people, and no Krueger either.

“Okay,” he said, pointing vaguely left, “you go to the south generator and-”

“That’s north.”

“Just _go_ , David!”

Quentin didn’t think he would at first, that he’d be stuck with an angry British guard dog the entire trial. Might not have been a terrible thing, if things were different. But right now he needed to be alone so he could get that fucking _thing_ out of him, which meant David had to go. Maybe he could tell how serious Quentin was by his scowling face. Maybe he didn’t feel like arguing–an unlikely scenario. Whatever the reason, David looked Quentin up and down, nodded curtly, and took off towards the southern… northern-most generator.

Letting a few moments pass for David to get good and away, Quentin undid his belt. Blood rushed to his face as his fingers fumbled with the button on his jeans; he had no idea where the others were. Just because he hadn’t seen them didn’t mean they weren’t lurking around a corner somewhere. Hiding in a locker, watching him through the ventilation slits… oh _god_ , best not to think about that.

Quentin barely got his fly down before the lullaby touched the corners of his mind like a hallucination.

“Shit,” he cursed quietly, yanking the zipper up and buttoning his pants. Quentin dropped into a crouch, hissed out a pained breath, then stood back up. Nope. Not a good plan. It was impossible to tell where Krueger was coming from or how far away he was. Sometimes it seemed like what he could and couldn’t do in these fucked up games changed day to day and Quentin had trouble keeping track of it. Was he asleep? Was he awake? Did it matter anymore?

He needed to move. Anything was better than waiting around to get a fist through the back. Or worse. Peeking around the edge of the wall, Quentin scanned the sparse woods for any shuffle of grass, any disturbance of demonic birds, any sign of his tormentor. Seeing nothing, he took a breath, said a silent, forced prayer, and broke into a sprint.

Wet grass whipped at Quentin’s legs as he ran away from–at least he _hoped_ it was away–from the lullaby. The singsong taunt of unseen children rang in his ears, making his heart hammer in his chest. Krueger wasn’t interested in anyone else, it seemed. It was going to be one of _those_ types of trials, where he was stalked and mocked the entire time. At least it would give the others a chance to quickly finish the generators and open the gates. And then? Krueger would either kill him or let him go with a knowing smirk and a flutter of knives.

If Krueger followed him _the entire time_ , if he never got a moment’s peace to ease the plug out of his aching body, what then? Would it disappear as he hobbled towards the campfire? Would it remain, forcing him to sneak away from the fire under watchful eyes to try to steal enough privacy to get rid of it? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to find out.

The lullaby grew louder, a screaming chorus snaking through his head, and Quentin grimaced. Wrong direction. Wrong choice. What else was new? He heard Krueger before he saw him, heard the deep, sardonic laugh and the metallic rustle of metal scraping against itself. When Quentin glanced over his shoulder, he knew what he would see. The best he could do was distract Krueger, hold his attention as long as possible so the others had time to repair the generators and open the gates. Then he could get the hell out of here.

Wasn’t hard. Krueger seemed content to follow him. Breaking hard left, Quentin dashed away from the cabin in the center of the woods and headed into the high walls staked into the ground. What they were for he had no idea, but a version of them always seemed to appear, and they were good for ringing around. Good for buying time. Where Quentin went, Krueger followed. Around every corner, past every thrown pallet, towards the rickety shack wedged where two high, bricked walls met. Quentin panted hard, sweat touching his hairline, as he dashed towards it. Krueger stayed a step behind, so perfectly timed that Quentin began to wonder if he was doing it on purpose. It was only when Quentin slammed his palms down the rough window ledge and vaulted into the shack, screaming with pain as the plug jolted inside of him, that Krueger took a swing.

Pain and blood blossomed over his back, soaking his shirt as he stumbled over the wooden flooring, trying to get his bearings. He needed to run. He needed to move. Where didn’t matter. Anywhere. Anywhere but _here._

The glove came slicing through the air once more, just as Quentin bolted for the door. Krueger was faster and with a short scream, Quentin hit the floor. Krueger loomed over him, wide grin slashed into his grotesque face. Gritting his teeth with determination, Quentin dug his elbows into the floor and dragged himself towards the door. Krueger’s smile widened, sharp, yellowed teeth glinting in the pale light as he cackled open-mouthed at the boy. Followed a step behind once more, watching and laughing until Quentin made it to the doorway.

“Where d’ya think you’re goin’?” Krueger asked, closing the distance. Kicking Quentin’s thighs apart, he pressed his boot heavily against his ass. Quentin yelped, back arching as Krueger dug his boot around, forcing Quentin’s ass apart as much as he could so he could press down hard on the plug. Krueger bounced his foot, jamming the plug as far into Quentin’s insides as he could, mockingly fucking him with the toy with each push of his boot.

“Stop!” Quentin cried out finally, fisting his hands in the grass and the dirt as he tried to pull away. Rain fell lightly on his flushed face. The earth felt soft and cool under his fingers. So much nicer than the empty shack behind him. Empty except for the demon leering down at him.

Grabbing Quentin by the ankle, Krueger hauled him back through the door frame. Placing a knee on either side of Quentin’s thighs, Krueger straddled the back of his knees. He ran the ungloved hand over the back of Quentin’s jeans, squeezing a cheek hard and laughing at the boy’s startled yelp. When Quentin began to flail, however, rock and thrash and scream, Krueger was a little less amused. In a real dream, it would be fine. Here? The other assholes might hear and interrupt, something he didn’t want to deal with.

Drawing his glove back, Krueger stabbed Quentin’s right thigh. The blades sank deliciously into the flesh, grazing past bone until they jabbed into the wood underneath. Quentin merely gasped as though the wind had been knocked out of him, staring wide-eyed into the forest outside the door. Gasping was better than screaming, and Quentin had never been particularly loud. Not when it came to pain, anyway. The threat of pain never worked when it came to keeping Quentin on his best behavior, but Krueger had known the boy long enough to know what _did._

“Keep quiet,” Krueger warned, “or it’ll be them instead of you.”

He didn’t nod, didn’t say ‘yes, sir’ like he would have when he was a baby, but he snapped his trap shut and that was good enough. Yanking his knives out of Quentin’s leg–the boy only moaned and stuffed his fist in his mouth to keep from making any other noise–he spread both hands over his ass. Firm, but enough cushion to make it fun to squeeze. Big enough to fill his hands. Reminded him of a girl’s ass, and Krueger never missed an opportunity to tell Quentin that.

“Almost as good as hers,” he murmured, not bothering to specify who her was. Quentin knew. He knew, and he didn’t say anything about it, like a good boy.

Pressing the heel of his hand between Quentin’s cheeks, he was rewarded with a sharp inhale of breath. Krueger leaned over Quentin, putting weight on his arm, working the plug in as far as he could. If he wiggled his hand, could he get the flared edge to breech Quentin’s ass? Work it good and in so he’d _really_ struggle to get it out? The thought excited him, and Krueger drew back to pull at the boy’s jeans. Reaching under him, undoing the belt and the button and the zipper, would take too long, was too much work. Krueger was eager to put his idea to the test, so with a couple of well-placed swipes, he shredded Quentin’s pants enough to tear them away. So what if he nicked the skin here or there, got a little blood mixed in the with the long, thin fibers of denim? Krueger tore at the remains of Quentin’s pants like a bratty child ripping open a Christmas present until finally the tear was large enough for him to work.

The gem winked at him between the boy’s pale cheeks and Krueger smiled. Cute. He was still gonna make it disappear, but no harm in taking a moment to appreciate his hard work.

“HEY!”

Krueger’s head popped up and turned towards the shout. A few paces away stood David, square face warped with fury, chest heaving, arms tense on either side of his puffed-out chest. Quentin’s bodyguard. His _boyfriend_. Krueger’s own face melted into anger as he drew to his feet, plan momentarily forgotten in the face of David. David, the arrogant prick who had the nerve to think _he_ was Quentin’s boyfriend. That Quentin got to _have_ a boyfriend. Didn’t he know to whom Quentin _belonged_? Well, Krueger had no issue with beating another reminder into the Brit’s abnormally thick skull.

As Krueger and David sized each other up like angry peacocks, Meg slipped quietly into the ramshackle shack.

“Shh,” she hushed, placing a hand gingerly on Quentin’s lacerated back. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

If Krueger noticed the young woman, he gave no indication. He was too busy aiming knives into David’s chest with his eyes. David threw them right back, mouth twisted into a deep scowl.

“He don’t love you,” David growled.

Krueger stared at him a moment, temporarily shocked out of anger by David’s gross misreading of the situation. Then his face crinkled up and he _laughed._ Tipped his head back and howled until tears welled at the corners of his eyes. “Of course he doesn’t, you fucking idiot,” Krueger spat between snickers. “I don’t love him either.”

It was David’s turn to be surprised. He blinked, mouth slightly agape. “Then… wot!? What’s yer _obsession_ with ‘im!?”

“He’s mine,” Krueger said simply. “I own him.” 

Before David could respond, an alarm blared, interrupting their conversation. Krueger swiveled, whipping back towards the shack, but Meg and Quentin were gone. Hobbling towards the gate, Quentin leaned heavily on Meg’s shoulder. Miles away, meeting the fourth shitsack who probably had the door almost open by now. Krueger snapped back to David, no longer stunned, face a mask of perfect fury. His plan, ruined. It would be days before Quentin fell asleep, and an unknown amount of time before he saw him in one of these stupid games again. It was all the fucking meathead’s fault. He was the one who had distracted him, the one who had allowed Quentin to be stolen right out from under him. For that, he would pay.

The gates buzzed distantly and the ground crackled with fire. It caught Krueger’s eyes, glinting the narrowed slits gold as he advanced on the smirking Brit.

“Three minutes,” David jeered, rocking on the balls of his feet, ready to run once Krueger was too close.

Snarling, Krueger lunged at David like a snake at its prey, barely missing the large man as he took off in a sprint. Krueger followed, gaining ground with every step, relishing the way David threw glances over his shoulder, _knowing_ he was going to get caught before he made it out, _knowing_ it was only a matter of _when_ , not if. Quentin was out the door, disappearing into the ever-present fog, Krueger could feel it. Probably the others too, because Krueger did not see any of them when the gate finally came into view. David saw it too, right before Krueger put his ass on the ground.

“Three minutes, huh,” he cooed, kicking David onto his back before standing over him, taking his turn to smirk into David’s bloody face. “Better make it count.”

Dropping to his knees, Krueger straddled David’s front much like he’d pinned Quentin’s backside. Unlike his pretty twink, David was older. Bigger. Quentin was scrappy, but David had _experience_. Knew how to take a beating and come back for more. He had to work fast, because the clock was ticking until the sky spider claimed his prize, and David wouldn’t stay down as easily as his boy had.

In quick succession, Krueger stabbed David. Shoulder, torso, other shoulder, all the way through to the ground. His blades pulled slickly out of the man’s muscle as David screamed, blood splattering over both of them. Krueger didn’t let up; he didn’t have _time_ to let up. With fast, frenzied movements, he eviscerated every bit of flesh he could lay claw to. Relished the way that cocky smile dropped away, leaving behind a grimace, though it was getting hard to tell through the swollen mass of blood that was David’ face. Shoving the middle claw under David’s chin, he tilted the man’s head up.

“This’ll teach you,” Krueger hissed slowly, craning over the battered man until he could smell David’s irony breath, “to play with other people’s toys.”

Cracking a red-stained smile, David quipped a quiet “Sharin’ is carin’, y’bloody cunt,” and spit a thin stream of blood into Krueger’s face.

His three minutes were almost up. Though he wanted nothing more to slowly carve the bastard’s tongue out of his skull, Krueger satisfied himself with a stab through the throat, with the way David’s eyes went wide and the blood bubbled up like a macabre foundation, with the knowledge that _he_ had killed him, not the spikes.

Wiping his blades on David’s cooling cheek, Krueger gave it a slow pat before standing. Somewhere beyond that gate and sparse woods, a fire burned. Had Quentin already pulled out his present? Stepping over David’s corpse, Krueger went as far as the monster who controlled this world, the bitch who kept him imprisoned here, would allow. Thin, black spikes erupted out of the ground, blocking his path, preventing him from following where the playthings went.

For now, at least.

Draping his wrists through the latticework of spines, Krueger leaned forward and grinned. Soon, kiddo. Let the boy enjoy the power he thought he had, the knowledge he thought he was gaining. Let him think he was one step ahead, because this gate wouldn’t hold him forever. Sooner or later, he’d learn how to get past it. Sooner or later, he’d regain what the sky bitch and taken from him. And then?

Quentin would _beg_ for death. _Pray_ for it. But there would be no god to answer his prayers.

Only Krueger.


	6. Quentin Drabbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: murder

**Scream**

It wasn’t really silent. When you stopped to listen, you could hear life in the swamp. Cicadas singing into the muggy night. Owls hooting softly. The croak of a bullfrog. Meg’s shrill scream sending the crows to flight. They cawed irritably, blinking their beady eyes at her. Ruffling their feathers with bother as they perched atop the rotten walls, as though her hanging from the swinging hook was an incredible bother to their night. It was only when Quentin’s oil-smudged fingers lifted her, draping her arm over his shoulders to help her trudge through the ankle-deep mud, that they quieted. 

  
  
**Butterfly**

“He’s gonna be a butterfly!” 

Freddy grimaced, staring into the distance over the excited child’s head. The crunchy brownness Quentin had taken for a cocoon just waiting to birth a butterfly was actually one incredibly dead caterpillar. Quentin held the small terrarium high, smudge prints on the plastic from all the times he’d picked it up and put it back down obsessively, showing it to Jesse, to Nancy, to Ms. Winters in the office. 

And now, to Freddy. He looked back down at the boy. Blue eyes sparkling, plump lips parted as he waited eagerly for Freddy’s praise. 

Freddy ruffled Quentin’s curls, a tight smile stretching his gaunt cheeks. “He sure is, kiddo. Any day now.” 

**Cold**

“Fuck you,” Frank snarled then, as an afterthought, “and fuck the Entity too!” 

Quentin was inclined to agree, but cursing the sky spider wasn’t going to get him out of the snow. It clumped around his shoes, dense, wet, and cold. The hems of his faded jeans were dark with moisture, his socks frozen to his feet. Scowling, he tucked his hands under his armpits, shivering inside of the hoodie he’d woken up with. 

“Look, I don’t like this any more than you do,” Quentin said, trying his best to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “But it’s cold out here, okay?”

“Like we give a shit,” Julie yelled from a paneless window of the chalet, the warm glow of the fire pit turning her hair golden. Quentin shivered as Frank turned to glare at her, an expression which she returned with a defiantly elegant arch of her brow. 

“You can freeze to death,” Frank declared icily before turning on his heel and stomping back to the chalet, presumably to deal with Julie’s undermining of his authority in front of an outsider. He turned halfway there, jabbing a finger in Quentin's direction. “If I catch you here again, you’re gonna wish you _had_.” 

Quentin watched him go, metaphorically throwing his hands in the air. It was too cold to actually do that, so he turned and trudged away towards one of the rough wooden shacks dotting the busted resort. At least it would be shelter from the wind and Frank’s fucking attitude. 

**Burn**

Rubber screamed against the road as Alan took a turn too fast. Quentin almost cried, clamping his hands over his ears to block out the roar of cars around them. Like an armada they charged down the road, following a single man running for his life. 

He was supposed to be at Jesse’s house, but Jesse was always mean when Quentin came to play, pushing him and calling him names. When he’d seen his dad’s car pull up, he was sure he’d come to take him home. He’d toddled to the car and climbed into the backseat, but not before sticking his tongue out and calling Jesse a butt. But then Alan had come tearing out of the house, Jesse’s parents storming behind him, and Quentin had flattened himself to the floorboards in fear. 

The car stopped, throwing his small body against the back of the front seats. If it weren’t for the other cars screeching to stops, Alan might have heard Quentin’s muffled cry, but he was angling out of the car and slamming the door behind him before Quentin’s knees hit the floorboards. 

“Krueger!” Anger rumbled in his voice, threatening to crack the earth open with its fury. Rubbing his eyes with small fists, Quentin crawled to the door, then climbed onto the seat. Just the top of his head and his wide blue eyes peeked out the window, trying to make sense of what was going on. A bunch of other adults were with his father. Quentin recognized a few of them, had seen them pick up the other kids from school, but most were strangers. 

“Come on out, you bastard! You open this door, Krueger!” 

A big building stretched before him, dark and imposing against the night sky. It was bigger than any house he’d ever seen, even bigger than the school. The windows were cracked and dirty, the doors warped and twisted in swollen frames. He didn’t like it. Was Mr. Krueger inside of this monster’s castle? Did he live here? And why was everyone yelling? Banging on the doors like they meant to knock them down? Mr. Krueger was his _friend_. Why was everyone so mad at him? 

“Get your ass out-”

“Open the _fucking door_!” 

“Make sure he can’t get out the back!” 

The grown ups surrounded the building, rattling doors and shattering windows too high to climb inside of. High, pleading screams bled out of the broken windows, too muffled for Quentin to understand, but they were ignored. Whatever Mr. Krueger was saying, no one was interested in listening. Alan turned from the door and stalked towards the car. Quentin barely had time to duck back into the floorboards before his dad wrenched open the trunk. 

“No, no, this isn’t the right way,” a soft voice whispered urgently, a voice he’d heard before, someone’s mom. She sounded scared, unsure. 

“What _is_ the right way,” a man hissed, his voice like a cigarette twisting in an ashtray, “our kids get on a stand and have to-”

“No, no!” She cried. The quiver in her voice set Quentin’s lip to trembling. Alan slammed the trunk closed, bouncing the car like a boat in a storm. Quentin started to cry. 

“He’s right; this ends tonight.” 

The three of them were walking away. Quentin edged forward, pressing his tear-streaked face to the glass. Fire flew from his father’s hand like a comet, smashing through one of the dusty windows. So quickly it caught, licking at the dehydrated paper inside, climbing up the walls like red ivy. The pleading dissolved into screams. Over the fire they arced, terror and pain giving way to anger. Quentin covered his ears, hunkering back on the floorboard. Terror raced through his guts. He was too scared to move, too scared to get out of the car, too scared to help, too scared to do anything other than cry. Urine wet his shorts, pooled around his knees and soaked into the scratchy carpet. Quentin sobbed louder, knowing he was going to be in so much trouble. He wanted to go _home_. He wanted his sister. He wanted Mr. Krueger’s soft voice telling him everything was going to be okay. But he had none of them; he was alone, shoved between seats that smelled like old happy meals and pee. He tried to block out the screaming, the exploding glass, the raging flames, and above it all his father’s enraged roaring. 

**_“This is for my son!”_ **


	7. Monster (Yamaoka Kazan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the time of his death, Kazan reflects on his life.  
> CW: major character death

Of all the times Kazan had imagined his own death, never had he thought it would be like this. Visions of a grand battle often occupied his mind or, if he was very lucky, an easy passing into old age and beyond. But warriors such as he did not live to old age. Before he’d set off on his crusade, Kazan had accepted the possibility of his own death. Didn’t expect it, no, but accepted it nonetheless. And here it was. 

Hazy brown eyes stared blankly at the high rafters of the mill. Had the sky passed into darkness, a million shining stars dotting the inky black? Against a backdrop of chirping cicadas and flickering fireflies, he’d named those stars. Pointed them out one by one and in clusters of constellations, watching the way Akito’s face lit up with amazement, how his mouth fell open in his plump little face. How carefully he listened, how attentively, always eager to learn whatever Kazan was willing to teach him. 

What had his departure taught him? What had he thought the morning he woke up to discover his father gone? Had he waited for him? Spent day after day, night after night at the gate of the estate for a father who would never return? What did Akito think of his father now? What _would_ he think of him, when he learned of his father’s humiliating death at the hands of peasant farmers, tortured and tied like an animal?

Like a monster. 

Hours earlier, Kazan had been furious. Indignant. If he hadn’t been tired from fighting his way into the daimyo’s estate, he could have easily handled the villagers who waited for him. If he’d slept better the night before, if he’d eaten a better meal and had more energy. If he’d taken a different way out of the estate, so as to have a better angle on them. It wasn’t right--they shouldn’t have been able to defeat him. They were no warriors. Some of them were barely men, just scrawny teenagers clutching sai and kuwa in their mud-caked hands. Absurd! Laughable that such a ragtag mess would be able to bring a Yamaoka to his knees. 

But they had. To his knees and tied him there, taking their anger out on his body, jabbing hole after hole in his skin until the blood flowed freely. How he’d struggled! Thrashed and roared out his anger amidst their barking laughter, their taunting cries of “Oni, oni!" Anger surged through him more powerfully than he’d ever felt before, and Kazan wished he _was_ an oni. Wished he had the strength to break the ropes, to tear them limb from limb like a _true_ monster. If they wanted to see a monster, he would show them a monster. It would be the last thing any of them ever saw. 

Even as they’d dragged him away from their fallen lord’s home, blood streaking darkly through the dirt, his anger burned bright. The last taunt stung as freshly as the first, sharper than any prick of their blades. His roars died down, however, the longer his body bled. Kazan wasn’t sure exactly when he knew that he was going to die, but as the realization penetrated his mind, his anger rekindled. He screamed and he thrashed as they bound him to the great stone grinder. Strained against the ropes that wouldn’t budge, their laughter almost as loud as his indignant cries. 

“Scream all you like,” they goaded. “No one is going to save a monster like you! They will sleep better at night knowing you are dead!” 

How stupid they were! How little they understood. There was no one he expected to aid him. Never in his life had he expected anyone’s help. He certainly wasn’t going to start at his death. As he’d lived, so too would he die. Alone. 

Ice numbed each of Kazan’s limbs, making them heavy and useless. So much blood... He no longer had the energy to scream, and there was no point. Eventually, the last of the farmers wandered from the mill. Pain prickled the back of his mind, his numerous and grievous wounds demanding attention that Kazan refused to give. Pain was of the mind, and he would not think on it. Pushed it from his mind as he stared blearily up. 

Akito had been so fat when he was born. Never before had Kazan seen such a fat baby. It was true he’d not seen many babies, but his son was not at all what he expected. Red-faced and squishy, he’d scrunched his face up at his father and began to wail, great globs of tears streaking down his doughy cheeks. Kazan had never felt such terror in his life--didn’t think he was capable of feeling it. But in the face of that crying child, _his_ child, he’d felt utterly helpless. His wife and mother had laughed as they showed him how to hold his arms to cradle the baby, chuckled as they laid him within the crook of Kazan’s arms, smiled as Aktio stopped crying. 

“You are a good father,” his mother assured. 

A good father. Was he even a good man? Did one negate the other? Was he leaving a better world, a more honest one, a more honorable one, behind for his son? Would Akito understand what he’d been trying to do and why he had to do it? Had he been but a little older, Kazan might have explained it to him. What had his mother told him of Kazan’s pilgrimage? What poison had Renjiro poured into his ears? Your father is a coward, they would say. A common murderer. A monster. All the putrid lies the daimyo had spread, that Kazan had tore his snake’s tongue out for. His own family, filling his son’s head with such things! Disgusting. Disgraceful! Anger surged in Kazan, clamping on his throat like an iron claw, flaring his nostrils as he stared helplessly up. His father’s tongue had forever been silenced. But what of Akito’s mother? Of his own mother? 

_They will lie to him_ , the voices whispered. Kazan shut his eyes, but he could not shut them out. The voices had been with him for so long. He could never remember the first time he’d been aware of them. Perhaps they’d always been there, talking to him like invisible playmates. The only playmates he’d ever been allowed to have. Swordsmanship. Discipline. Honor. Hypocrisy. Cruelty. There was no time for friends between Renjiro’s lessons. Perhaps that was why the voices had come to him in the first place. 

They will lie to him the voices said, and Kazan hoped that they were right. Tell Akito any story other than this shameful truth, that his father had died broken and bound by simple farmers. Let his last thought of his father be an honorable one. A merciful one. How he wished he could see Akito's bright eyes instead of the splintering rafters. Hear his sweet voice instead of the groaning storehouse. Feel his tiny hands touching his brow tenderly instead of pain and blood and humiliation. Of course he didn't want Akito to see him like this, never, yet the thought still came. It came, he held it a short time, took what small relief it offered, and then let it wash over him. 

Blackness blurred the edges of his vision. Death beckoned, pulling at his consciousness. Cold tendrils of smoke curled around his battered body, seeming to fill every hole poked into his flesh, jabbed deep into his muscle and bone. Like death itself, the black fog shrouded his body, sucked into his lungs like dirty water, crowded out his vision with its pervasive darkness. There was room for nothing else, and Kazan did not fight it. Let all that was Yamaoka Kazan fall away. Let the cold, dark fog replace his thoughts, his feelings, his memories. Let it take his pain, what regret he might've caused Akito, whatever grief and sorrow felt for his father. Let the fog choke it out. Let the voices whisper over it. Let the anger replace it. 

A monster they'd called him. He would _show_ them a monster. 


	8. His Arms All Around Me (KruegerxQuentin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems like Krueger has some new powers... written during the Freddy rework   
> CW: blood, noncon, degradation, brief mentions of past CSA

From the moment he’d opened his eyes, Quentin knew he was fucked. It wasn’t pessimism–Quentin considered himself a realist–but just his honest assessment of the situation. Things never went well when he dreamed of home, but this was  _ different _ . New. New brought the possibility of learning things about how this world worked, about how  _ he _ fit inside of it and maybe, if he was really lucky, something that would help him kill Krueger for good.

But when was Quentin ever lucky?

Quentin headed towards the preschool. Something was there; he didn’t know what, but he could see something shimmering at the edge of his vision, a white light calling him into the nightmarish projection of his childhood. Steps slowing as he got closer, Quentin looked around as he made his way through the bloody halls and abandoned classrooms. Everything was darker than the last time he’d been in this memory. Bloodier. More decrepit. Badham had changed. Did that mean Krueger had changed too?

Trailing his hand along the railing, Quentin descended the stairs into the basement towards the white light. Expanses of concrete and hissing pipes stretched before him, much larger than before, much larger than he remembered in reality. This basement, both the real one and the fake one, was something Quentin knew  _ well _ . These turns were not the same. Twists were not the same. It took a few seconds longer than it should have to navigate through the snaking corridors, but Quentin made it into the open space beside Krueger’s room.

A white dresser sat in the middle of the space. Atop it an alarm clock screeched, face wide like an open eye staring at him, screaming at him to pick it up, pick it up! Blood spattered everything, and Quentin thought nothing of it as he dazedly moved towards the clock, arms outstretched as his sneakers streaked through the bloody puddle.

The ground rocked underneath him. Fear shot through his body like a rocket, seizing in his throat as he looked down just in time to see hands–bloody, corpse-like hands–crawling out of the ground. Shrieking without mouths, dead fingers closed around his ankles, his calves, scratching and clawing as though they’d drag him straight to hell. Quentin sank down with a short scream, what had been a normal smear of blood before suddenly contained depth enough to bring him to his knees. The hands grabbed his wrists, his elbows, his hair, yanking his face down into the putrid red. It pooled under his mask, flowed into his nostrils until he choked and sputtered, shaking his head violently in an attempt to get away, but the hands were  _ everywhere. _

He was going to die. He was going to drown in this Lovecraftian puddle of horror. The world around him dimmed, but Quentin could faintly make out footsteps through the haze. Louder, closer, until they stopped. Fingers fisted in his hair, jerking his head up and out of the blood. It oozed from the edges of his mask, wept from the eye holes, and Quentin could not see until the mask was lifted slowly from his face.

“You must do real shit work out there,” Krueger taunted, regarding the mask in his hand, “if you’re this easy to catch.”

Dropping it onto the concrete, Krueger slowly pressed his boot down on the mask. Cracks fissured out, criss crossing the storm cloud gray surface until finally it shattered beneath Krueger’s boot, the splintered pieces slowly sinking into the blood.

“They’re n-not,” he sputtered through the gore on his face, “trying to catch me.”

“Oh, that’s right. They’re  _ running _ from you. You’re a ‘Killer’ now.”

Refusing to rise to the goad, Quentin glowered up at Krueger. Now that Quentin’s mask had been taken, Krueger stood a few steps back, arms crossed over his chest. He grinned as the bloody hands contorted Quentin, wrenching him onto his side into an uncomfortable position. Two hands gripped his ankles, weighing him down into the blood as it splashed over his calves. Two more held his wrists while another grasped his elbow. The last stayed in his hair, twisting his head this way and that to keep Krueger in the center of his vision.

“You’re not a killer, boy. We both know what you are. Playtime’s over. It’s time for you to go back where you belong.”

“I’m not going back to the campfire,” Quentin snapped. He wanted to, sometimes, but what he wanted didn’t matter. There was still more to learn. Besides, the monster wouldn’t allow him to go back. Not now. Not yet.

But Krueger chuckled darkly, closing the distance between them as he shook his head. Kneeling by the blood, he caught Quentin’s chin in his hand. Quentin recoiled, but the hands clamped down harder, bruising his flesh as Krueger leaned in with an amused sneer. “Who said anything about the campfire?”

Quentin opened his mouth to retort only to have filthy fingers shoved inside. They prodded his tongue, jabbed so far into his throat he gagged, and pushed at the insides of his cheeks. Two at first, then four, multiple fingers from multiple hands opening his mouth so wide it hurt.

“What was that?” Krueger asked, holding his gloved hand up to his ear mockingly. “Got somethin’ to say?”

Angry sputters were the only response Quentin could give. Krueger grinned, watching him struggle for a moment, before hooking a claw in his shirt and slicing downward. Quentin yelped, the claw cutting a thin line from his collar to navel. It took all four claws to rip open his thick denim jeans, two parallel cuts running down the back of each thigh. The hands finished the work, grasping his ruined clothing and tearing, ripping and yanking until it hung around his blood-smeared body in tatters. The hands cupped his groin, squeezing and rubbing roughly as more hands pulled the back of his underwear down to expose his ass. Quentin could feel the warmth of Krueger behind him, could feel the cold metal tracing the contours of his ass and legs. The hand in his hair slammed his face back into the blood, pulling his upper body down while shoving his ass into the air. Blood seeped into his open mouth, filled his nostrils, and Quentin sputtered, coughed, tried to keep his airway clear enough to breathe.

Krueger pressed flush against him, slid his hands up Quentin’s back before leaning over him, hands clamping over his bloody restraints. “This,” Krueger hissed, licking up the side of Quentin’s face, “is where you belong.”

The sweater rubbed roughly at his back, but Quentin could feel mottled flesh against his backside. Thrashing, he bit angrily at the fingers probing his mouth. They cracked and bled against his tongue, a visceral miasma filling his mouth that he couldn’t spit out. Impervious to pain, they kept pushing against his aching jaws. The other hands refused to tire either, pulling his prostrate body taut, ripping at his hair until he was sure his scalp would tear from his skull. All the while, Krueger’s voice in his ear, dark whispers Quentin was happy to let pain wash out. It muted everything until it felt unreal, removed, distant...

Until he felt Krueger’s cock jamming against his ass. Quentin snapped back to attention, howling against the fingers as Krueger dipped his fingers in the blood, then smeared it over his backside. The sticky fluid was a poor substitute for lubricant, but what did that matter? Krueger’s fingers shoved inside of him roughly and Quentin groaned, reflexively tightening his muscles. Unperturbed, Krueger continued to finger him in harsh, deep thrusts, watching with a wide grin as Quentin’s blood joined the makeshift lube on his fingers. Quentin tried to breathe deeply, tried to relax, but it was impossible to take a breath without gulping in blood. Only twice had he ever come close to drowning and it was a horrible experience both times, but not nearly as horrible as what he was experiencing now. Quentin opened his mouth even wider against the hands and inhaled deeply, snorted blood up through his nose and let it run down his throat, pooling in his lungs, filling them...

The hand in his hair ripped his face up, contorting his spine into a painful arch. “Nice try,” Krueger muttered, fingers stilled inside of him as he slapped Quentin’s back. “But you’re not getting out of here that easy.” 

Blood and spittle ran down Quentin’s chin. Tears streaked his cheeks and snot leaked from his nose. Pain burned through his lungs, his back, his ass. The hands pulled his thighs wide, adding an aching pelvis to the list. He groaned, head ragdolling forward. It lolled against the hand’s grip, subtly swayed left and right to the motion of Krueger fingering him. He was out of ideas on how to stop this. Out of ideas on how to get out of here.  _ Might as well... _ his mind murmured unhelpfully,  _ might as well... _ Quentin’s body fell limp against the hands, letting them pull him open, letting them fuck his throat. His thighs relaxed, his ass unclenching around Krueger’s hand with a choked whimper.

“There he is,” Krueger purred, moving his fingers a little slower, a little gentler. “There’s my good boy.”

Shaking his head, Quentin whined against the fingers. He  _ hated _ being called that. Hated the memories that the simple phrase brought up. Hated to remember himself as a child–god, he’d been so  _ stupid _ –practically begging for Krueger’s attention. Hated the way he’d puffed up with pride whenever Krueger would ruffle his hair or stroke his cheek and tell him what a good job he’d done. What a  _ good boy _ he was. The memories made him sick. Cold hatred filled Quentin like icy water, not at Krueger, but at himself. He was disgusted at what he’d so willingly done then, and he was disgusted at himself now for not fighting harder. For not screaming and thrashing and biting, for not tearing himself into unconsciousness against the arms. Disgusted. Ashamed.

Quentin didn’t respond as Krueger withdrew his fingers. Didn’t resist when Krueger lined his cock up against his abused hole and  _ pushed _ . Even with the blood slicking him, even with the rudimentary preparation, pain jolted through Quentin’s core. A small moan fell from his lips as Krueger sank into him, inch by agonizing inch. Quentin stared blankly ahead as Krueger fucked him, his unblinking eyes dry and puffy.

“No, no,” Krueger murmured, his voice soft against Quentin’s ear as he caught his throat in the gloved hand, “You’re not going anywhere.”

Something snaked through the corner of his vision, but Quentin didn’t respond. Didn’t turn to look at it. Krueger’s tongue slid against his eyes, wetting the dry surfaces with a languid lick. The extended muscle slithered across both eyes at once and Quentin jerked back with revulsion, the shock of Krueger’s disgusting act sending him back into his body, into reality, into this moment. A strangled noise of disgust pushed back the fingers probing his mouth and Krueger laughed, tightening the hand on his neck now that he was sure he had Quentin’s attention.

A hand massaged his flaccid cock through his half-on underwear, though Quentin couldn’t tell if it was one of the bloody limbs risen from the puddle or Krueger’s. His hips flinched away from the invasive, groping fingers, meeting Krueger’s thrust in extraordinarily poor timing on his part. The demon’s laugh rang in his ears. He sped up, claws cutting the delicate skin of Quentin’s jaw as they fluttered.

Each rough thrust burned through Quentin’s body, the hand on his neck stealing his breath until he could only gasp and wheeze against the fingers in his mouth. The slap of skin stung the cuts on his thighs and made his legs tremble. If it weren’t for the hands holding him upright, he would have fallen into the blood. But the hands–Krueger?–weren’t going to give him that opportunity again.

It was easy to tell when Krueger came; Quentin could feel it burning the inside of his body like acid. Every hand tightened on him, squeezing his dick and cutting his throat and gagging him and leaving a thousand pinpoint bruises. Quentin fell away from Krueger’s body as the hands released him, sprawling limply on the floor. Only concrete met his stained skin, the bloody puddle having evaporated into nothingness once Krueger stepped away.

“Damn, I gotta borrow that freak’s camera,” he teased, placing his boot on Quentin’s hip and rolling him onto his back. “Missin’ some great shots here.”

Quentin turned his head away, staring at the wall. The basement wavered at the edges of his vision. Quentin recognized it instantly; the dream was dissolving because he was waking up. Thank  _ god _ . Like water dripping through cotton candy, Badham slowly melted away. The walls fell around him into nothingness, the old desks and tables disappearing. The last thing he saw piercing through the darkness was a wide grin of crooked teeth. It stained the back of his eyelids like a phosphene, flashing through his brain even as he awoke relatively secure in his little corner of the Ormond lodge.

People clattered around downstairs. Susie’s voice drifted up to him, howling with indignation at some jest. Probably Frank, maybe Joey. Julie rarely teased her. The others were here, at least two of them, and that was enough to motivate Quentin out of his nest. Swinging bloody legs from his makeshift bed, Quentin wobbled towards the rust-trap washroom sandwiched between his room and Frank’s. Today was one of the good days where the water actually ran. Cupping the frigid liquid in his hands, Quentin splashed it over his face, scrubbing at the quickly drying blood, hoping to get enough of it off before anyone saw. It was just one of a thousand things he didn’t want to explain, like the cuts on his throat or the cum leaking sluggishly down his thighs.

Once he was acceptably clean, Quentin made his way back to his room and dropped onto the moldy cushions, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyelids. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that cruel smile. Heard that laugh echoing through his head. Quentin laid still, curled up on his cushions, and tried to convince himself that it was just another bad dream. 


	9. Angel Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfinished Ghostface/Quentin one-shot that's mainly Quentin arguing with a sentient Ghostface mask and a couple of paragraphs of smut

Everyone  _ knew _ that Jed took pictures of them. Even the most naïve among them had figured out by now that the camera wasn’t just reserved for their corpses. Frank had chased him out of Ormond more than once for peeping through windows, snapping photographs of Susie while she showered in the cold, cold water. Quentin had managed to sneak a peek at his notebook and seen meticulous details scrawled in incredibly messy script: physical observations, routines, sleeping schedules, relationship dynamics, details of their past… the book had been snapped shut before he’d been able to read anything else.

There had to be more. More notes. More pictures. Maybe speculations. Connected dots between the survivors and killers and Entity that may help Quentin make sense of this world. May help him learn how to get out of it, when the time was right. Most importantly, if he was very lucky, there could be information on Krueger. Information he didn’t already know. Information that could help him finally kill the bastard once and for all.  _ That _ was his mission and his goal and why he’d snuck into the warehouse.

He’d prowled around for nearly half an hour before he found anything useful. The warehouse consisted of rows and rows of lumber and power tools interspersed with locked doors. The aisles felt like a labyrinth, switching and weaving whenever his back was turned, and they very well might have been. Eventually, maybe out of determination but more likely dumb luck, Quentin had stumbled upon a locked office. It sat with fishbowl windows he could barely see through if he cupped his hands around his face and squinted. Against the back wall on a plain shelf sat dozens of boxes, all labeled. He could make out the names on some of them, but most were too far away to read clearly.

It wasn’t until Quentin dropped into a crouch to pick the lock that the mask showed up. Silently at first, looming in the corners of his vision, making him glance fervently around every few seconds for a glimpse of Jed. Quentin wasn’t afraid of him, not really, but it would be a lot harder to get what he was after if he had to deal with him.

“He’s going to be maaaaad,” a voice sang in his ear, making Quentin start and jump away from the door. For the briefest of seconds, he thought he was caught, that Jed had snuck up on him in full costume without Quentin noticing. But it was not Jed. It was the mask, no body attached.

“Will you  _ please _ shut up and leave me alone?” Quentin hissed, glancing over his shoulder at it as he creeped back to the door. He tried to ignore the fact that he was talking to a floating, sentient mask. A really  _ annoying _ floating, sentient mask. Weirder things had happened to him, after all. Weird things happened all the time here, and Krueger was nothing if not outlandish. He didn’t have time to get into an argument with it. If the mask was here, that meant Jed was not in a trial. That didn’t mean he was in the warehouse, but it did mean that he  _ might _ be.

The mask hovered around him as Quentin fiddled with the lock. Breaking and entering wasn’t something he had a ton of experience with; the entering part, sure, but not so much the breaking. He didn’t actually know how to pick a lock, but he’d seen people do it in movies. Might as well give it a try. If that didn’t work, he’d just smash a window. What was Jed going to do,  _ kill him _ ?

“Fuck,” Quentin cursed softly as the bobby pin he’d been using snapped, wedging a thin piece of metal inside of the lock.

“Good job.”

Quentin tossed his head, irritated. “Shut  _ up,” _ he growled, getting a little louder than he meant to. “You’re not  _ helping _ !”

“I’m not trying to help.”

Quentin opened his mouth to retort but snapped it shut again as a pungent smell hit him. It reminded him of the time Jesse had drunkenly sloshed a bottle of Everclear down the front of his pants at the lake. He’d laughed, shook his head, and helped his sort of hopeless friend hang his pants over a low branch to dry. Quentin’s heart constricted painfully at the thought–how long had it been since he’d thought about Jesse? This wasn’t a dream, though, and it wasn’t Krueger wafting a phantom smell at him just to be a dick.

“Do you smell that?” He asked, hands falling still against his thighs as he looked around. Squinted into the darkness for a glance of the odor’s origin. He didn’t see anything, and the mask was talking again.

“I don’t have a nose, stupid,” it said, and Quentin narrowed his eyes.

“I really don’t like you.”

The mask distracting him, the acrid smell singing his nose hairs off. Quentin knew what it meant. Jed was here, had to be. Somewhere in the darkness, watching him. Waiting? Biding his time? For what? No need to be sneaky anymore, though. He was already caught.

“Alright,” Quentin said, addressing not the mask as he stood up but its owner. Companion? Who the hell knew?

“I know you’re there, Jed.”

Quentin waited, letting the seconds tick by. The only reply was silence and the scent of rubbing alcohol.

“Were you expecting something to happen?” 

“Shut up,” Quentin mumbled, turning back to the door. He was sure Jed was skulking around nearby. If he wasn’t going to come out when confronted, Quentin knew a way to get him to reveal himself. Drawing an arm up, he aligned his elbow with the small window on the office door, then brought it down in a sharp arc. Before it could smash into the glass, however, his elbow was caught from behind. It was so instantaneous that it startled him, just for a second. Jed must have slipped out of hiding the second he turned his back, been standing behind him when he went to smash the window. That was the only way to explain how quickly he’d grabbed Quentin.

“Knocking is polite,” Jed whispered, flattening Quentin against the door. Jed leaned into him, chest to back, slowly pressing the air from Quentin’s lungs with the weight of his larger body. “Where are your manners?”

“Manners,” he wheezed. “You call this polite?”

“I’m not the one breaking and entering.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’ve  _ never  _ done that before.”

Jed grinned against his ear, leaning a little heavier on the little killer’s frame, listening to his lungs deflate as they lost the struggle to bring in air. “This is a dangerous place to be.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Quentin hissed hoarsely and Jed believed him. Quentin wasn’t afraid of him, maybe because he was stupid but probably just because he didn’t know any better. The conversion from survivor to Killer had blinded him to a stark reality both in and outside of Master’s realm: there were worse things than death. How  _ fun _ it would be to watch him slowly realize that simple fact. The thought was enough to make Jed ease off, taking a step back so that Quentin could face him.

“What do you want?” he asked, his wide grin the only facial feature visible beneath his black undermask. The mask hovered near Jed’s shoulder, quiet now, watching the two of them.

“Your notes,” Quentin answered, sucking in gulps of air as discreetly as possible. “Anything on Krueger. Pictures, notes, observations. Anything. Everything.”

“Okay.”

Quentin stared at Jed in surprise. “Okay?”

“Yes. Okay. I will give them to you.”

Quentin frowned, brow drawing down as he glowered at the cheerful murderer. It couldn’t be that easy. If it was, why hadn’t Jed just let him break into the office and take what he needed? There had to be something else he was after. “But…?”

Jed’s grin pulled wider. “You have to do something for me first. Just a little thing. Hardly anything.”

“What?” Quentin asked, glancing between Jed and the now-grinning mask.

“Let me shoot you. After, you can have everything I’ve got on your boyfriend.”

“He’s  _ not _ my boyfriend,” Quentin snapped, his lip curling in disgust at the implication. It only made Jed smile more, one of the traits about him that annoyed Quentin most. It seemed impossible to rile him; nothing got under Jed’s skin, not even a literal knife. Even Krueger got hot under the collar sometimes, but Jed? Quentin had never seen it. He wasn’t sure Jed even knew how to get angry anymore than he knew any other emotion. But a photoshoot was pretty innocuous, wasn’t it? Sure, he would probably be in some weird poses and he would probably end up at least semi-nude but…

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d done that, would it? The color bled from Quentin’s face, an icy hand digging its fingers deep into his brain and yanking down. The basement was often warm, boiler hissing heat and steam into the hidden room. It poured in through the boards, the cracks in the brick. The concrete was painted in pale yellows and washed-out oranges from the candles that surrounded the bed, making it seem even warmer. Cozy yet eerie, like the witch’s house in Hansel and Gretel. There must’ve been hundreds of candles burning, making Quentin feel like an idol to be worshipped or a lamb to be sacrificed, or maybe both at the same time. He’d seen the pictures here, in the memory of Badham. No matter how many times he destroyed them, took them, or hid them, they always reappeared. His own baby-fat face bathed in candlelight, confused eyes staring up at an unseen photographer from a dirty mattress.

But that was a long time ago. It wouldn’t be like that with Jed.

Would it? 

“Okay,” he said finally, nodding his agreement. 

Jed’s expression didn’t change from the amused grin that had been plastered over his face during Quentin’s inner turmoil, but the mask looked happier. Probably not a good sign, but Quentin ignored it. What did that lump of latex know anyway? He pointedly ignored all the warning bells screaming inside his head and his gut. He knew this “photoshoot”--what was he, a model?-- was most likely going to be both unpleasant and awful. But he’d been through a lot of awful stuff and he  _ needed _ this information. And so he ignored his internal systems screeching red alert and followed Jed away from the office. He seemed to know exactly where he was going, alternating in stride to walk in front of Quentin or fall into step beside him. That stupid smile never left his face, never shifted in any perceivable way despite Quentin’s own sour expression. Door after door lined the wall, each identical in size, shape, and color. Unlabeled though they were, Jed had no difficulty finding the one he wanted. It took two keys to open the door, then Jed walked backward through the door, motioning for Quentin to follow him. The mask floated in last and the door snapped shut.

Smoke and fire hit him first, intense scents overpowering the cheap cologne Jed had apparently bathed in. It wrinkled his nose and for a brief moment panic seized his throat. As he looked around, he quickly saw that it was not candles, not any sort of fire he need be worried about, but rather torches stuck into iron handles. Casting large, swooping shadows on the walls, they lit the room like a medieval castle. 

“Not exactly good lighting,” Quentin commented. Jed said nothing, just smiled and continued to watch Quentin’s face, giving him time to take in the entirety of the room. It only grew more ridiculous from the impractical lighting. Layers of dirt and hay coated the floor; it must’ve taken dozens of trips to Coldwind to gather it. The only prominent features in the room were an old-time pillory, gallows, and a one-stall stable, all crafted out of rough, unfinished wood. A table, laden with woodworking tools and photography equipment, had been shoved into a corner, clearly not part of the historic set. Quentin looked around, his stomach sinking lower and lower as his pale eyes worked over the major props. Staging. Effect. God, he should be so lucky. 

Quentin knew as soon as he walked into the room that Jed was going to hurt him. If he was honest with himself, he’d known that from the beginning and chosen to press on, a decision that he now doubted. Only the mask stood between him and the door but, though Quentin liked his chances there, he didn’t turn. Didn’t run. He wasn’t interested in fighting Jed, and if he had any hope of getting what he came here for, he had to hold up his end of the bargain. 

“What do you want me to do?” He grumbled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. 

Jed still did not speak, which was actually a welcome change from Krueger’s never-ending yammering. Motioning like a stage magician, Jed unlocked and opened the top half of the pillory. It creaked on its hinges, the solid wood slow and heavy. Quentin stepped forward when he was beckoned, shooting Jed daggers and blowing out a short, aggravated sigh before dipping his neck into the hole. 

It snapped shut immediately, the heavy lock clicking. Shifting drove splinters into his neck and wrists, so Quentin didn’t. He stayed as still as possible, following Jed with his eyes when the man walked away. At that afterthought table, Jed rifled through items that he could not see. The longer he stood, the more uncomfortable he became. The stocks lifted him onto his toes, clearly designed for someone a head taller. Maybe it  _ hadn’t  _ been. Maybe it was purposefully crafted to be unnecessarily uncomfortable just because Jed was a dick. 

\-------------- 

Screaming shortly, Quentin tore at the mask, but his hands were yanked away before he could grab hold of it. Like a symbiote, it attached to his face as Jed tied Quentin’s wrists together tightly in front of him. Dizzying blackness surrounded him as the mask wrapped tighter, closing behind the back of his skull until his entire head was encased within it. It was all around him, blocking out his senses. Hot breath condensed on his cheeks, over the bridge of his nose. Even with open eyes, he saw nothing but wavering darkness. Heard nothing except the ever-present voice in his ears. Inside of his mind?

“You’re such a fucking slut,” it said and Quentin groaned, turning his head to the side. It was impossible to get away from the voice. The only thing he could really perceive at all was the mask. Even the hands roving over his body felt distant. Hard to notice. The rest of his body throbbed like an afterthought against the mask engulfing his head. Jed’s hands probed at his legs, shoved his thighs apart, and dipped between the cleft of his ass, but Quentin barely noticed it over the voice.

“You  _ love  _ this, don’t you?”


End file.
